


Take Me to Church

by Breath4Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternative First Meeting, Ballet Dancer Sherlock Holmes, Dancer Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Rugby Captain John, Unilock, Video Inspired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2018-12-13 00:42:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11748558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: John is just trying to escape the pressures of being a star rugby player and an aspiring doctor when he stumbles upon a dansuer practicing in an abandoned building on the outskirts of campus. He quickly becomes enchanted and finds himself pulled into a challenge by the beautiful and talented ballet dancer.This was inspired by this video:-Sergei Polunin, "Take Me to Church" by Hozieras posted on Tumblr.





	1. Take Me

John frowns as he pauses, tilting his head and straining to catch more of the odd noise drifting through the quiet woods. The early morning fog still clings to the leaves and branches but beams of sunlight are straining through the canopy to catch in swirling, misty motes as he scans his surroundings. 

He has escaped to these woods, on a forgotten corner of campus, many times before when he needs a break from his fellow students. So much is resting on his shoulders, the pressure of his studies and of being rugby captain. Sometimes the weight of that persona he has carefully built feels suffocating and he can no longer force one more smile, or laugh, or pretend there isn’t this aching _something_ inside him pressing down on his chest like a crushing stone. 

These woods are his sanctuary, a last bastion to save his sanity, and he feels a jolt of irritation that someone else is intruding, as if they are invading his most personal thoughts.

John sighs.

It’s music. He is certain of it now. The pained voice rising melodically through the sparse cords. Something lamenting and almost worshipful. John’s eyes are drawn to a large building in a clearing not far away. He gathers up his books, tosses them in his bag and slings it over his shoulder, picking his way towards the structure. 

It is a large building that had the potential to be two stories, but seems to have been abandoned at an early point in its construction. It is all bare studs and beams with walls and a roof but no windows or doors. The floor is a simple slate gray concrete. 

As John gets closer the music gets louder, the raw voice of the singer crying out and echoing around the sparse structure.

_’Take me to church/ I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies/ I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife/ Offer me that deathless death/ Good God, let me give you my life.’_

John freezes just outside the opening that would be the door, his mouth falling open as he glimpses the figure inside. 

Sunbeams stream down from the high up openings, bathing a lean, muscular young man in cold, white light. He is pale, his body bare except for tight shorts, the same color as his skin, hugging every muscle of his arse and thighs as he flexes and moves across the floor. His feet are clad in slippers, also a pale white, laces twining up his delicate ankles and strong calves. His hair is curly and black, damp with sweat and clinging to his temples. It stands out in stark contrast to his graceful body, and matches the black ink of several tattoos wrapping his abdomen and arm, further defining the well-worked musculature with their contours. 

The words of the song are deep and brooding and the body before John captures and embodies the emotions of the lyrics with stunning skill. He is filling the space with his nimble movements, his body contorting into shapes of agony and ecstasy with a mixture of sharp lines and smooth, rippling muscles. 

_'If I'm a pagan of the good times/ My lover's the sunlight/ To keep the goddess on my side/ She demands a sacrifice/ Drain the whole sea/ Get something shiny/ Something meaty for the main course/ That's a fine looking high horse.'_

Warm light pours down from above, fixing the danuser in a moment of exaltation and yearning. He writhes on the floor, body arching, every inch disciplined to perfection. He is curling in on himself. His body contracting as if in pain, and hinging to twist and then splay out. He suddenly sinks and almost instantaneous rises again, as if pulled by the invisible strings of the sorrows woven through the verses of the song. Then he is up, leaping, seeming to defy gravity; twirling through the air with his arms reaching high, fingers spread, and head tilting back. 

_'No masters or kings when the ritual begins/ There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin/ In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene/ Only then I am human/ Only then I am clean/ Amen, Amen, Amen.'_

He coaxes the emotion from his body like a musician playing a finely tuned instrument, pulling each note from the taut lines to orchestrate a perfectly enchanting complex tune. Each motion communicating precisely the tone and resonance he desires through his energy; taut or easy, active or passive, pressing or delaying. It is like being witness to a highly intimate and spiritual experience.

_’Take me to church/ I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies/ I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife/ Offer me that deathless death/ Good God, let me give you my life/ Amen, Amen, Amen.'_

All too soon, the song is over and the young man comes to rest on his knees, head curled down, hands formed into claws grasping his own thighs, body still wrought with tension as if he can’t even bare to clutch himself in comfort. He slowly rises to his feet and goes over to turn off the stereo.

“Well, don’t just loiter about, gawking like an idiot. If you must intrude on my practice, at least offer some constructive criticism.” The young danseur’s voice is much deeper than John would have expected and John startles at the words being directed at him. 

As the danseur turns towards John, one elegant hand pushes back the damp, curly fringe of his hair and icy blue eyes fix on John, sending a shiver all the way down his spine to curl his toes. Both the performer’s hands come to rest on his hips as he stares expectantly at John. His chest is heaving, slick with sweat.

“Sorry, what?”

The young man rolls his eyes and huffs, gesturing at the room where he just completed the dance. “The performance. What. Did. You. Think?” He stabs out the last words, harsh and sharply articulated, as if John is incapable of processing typical speech. John bumbles for a response a moment, glancing around the room. 

“You’re an amazing athlete,” he says reflexively. The danseur runs his eyes over John then sighs, flicking a dismissive wrist and looking disappointed as he turns away, gathering up his things. 

“Yes, I suppose that would be the only thing of interest to you, since you are clearly just an thick skulled rugby player.”

“Oi,” John snaps, stepping into the building. “You didn’t let me finish.” 

The danseur whirls around on him, eyes sharp. “What could you possibly have to offer? If you haven’t anything useful to say, don’t waste my time.” John meets his stare with equal intensity, rising to the challenge within his eyes. 

“I was saying, you are a great athlete. You’re moves are very precise, very disciplined. However, your expression of emotion needs work.” The danseur’s eyes narrow and dart over John. He steps closer, head tilted slightly to the side. And god, even that is elegant, like a great cat stalking towards prey. 

“Explain.” His voice has dropped incredibly low, dangerous but with an edge of curiosity. His eyes are hot lasers, slicing into John. John takes a small step back, to relieve the intensity of the moment, and gestures at the radio. 

“The song. It is about this beautiful and terribly painful revelation of this man. It’s about spirituality but also love and the physical expression of himself through intimacy. His struggle with his two halves as he gives himself to his lover; his spirituality and his physicality. The experience of falling in love or being in love as a sort of death and rebirth. This desire to sacrifice and surrender and worship and connect to something more than yourself. Sex is love made physical, it can be a sacrafice, a surrendering, a spiritual experience." John steps closer again, holding that icy stare. “You have the pain and struggle down, yeah. The agony and defiance and struggle to assert yourself against something bigger. Your struggle for control is all there. But you’re too much inside your head. You're missing the other half of it... that... _counterbalance_... the feeling parts, the sensuality, the love… You’re missing... the surrender.”  

The danseur blinks several times. He steps back, his head turning to the side and his lips pressing together, teeth digging into his bottom lip. 

Released from the heat of the young danseur’s stare, John feels a bit silly all of the sudden. A second of panic steals over him and makes him want to take back that feeble attempt at constructive criticism. He had only let those thoughts spill out so as not to get dismissed out of hand by this clearly brilliant young man. 

The dance felt like a glimpse into the young danseur’s soul. It was beautiful, in its own harsh and dark way, but there was a longing, a painful absence, the agony of missing something difficult to define. John hopes he is not deceiving himself to consider that they might share the same emptiness. That this young dancer’s yearning echoes the one within his own soul. He realizes now that he was exposing himself with those words. His attempt at feedback was actually a confession and his cheeks burn with embarsssment.

“I will be practicing here again at six this evening and seven tomorrow morning.” The danseur turns and reaches into his duffle bag. He pulls out a ratty t-shirt and some track pants and slips them on. Even these common movements are fluid and elegant and John can’t help but continue to watch, mesmerised. “I have sixteen days until my audition for the London Royal Academy of Dance.” The danseur gathers up his radio and hefts his gym bag onto his shoulder as he speaks. “I practice several times a day and am quick to apply concepts. I am sure we can remedy my problem of expression by then.”

_We?_

The young man is bounding out the opening that was to be a door and is almost gone before John has a moment to catch up to the enormous shift in conversation. “Wait. Is that it?” John blurts.

The danseur whirls back to him, and his posture seems defensive now. Bristling at John’s perceived objection. 

"Is _what_ it?"

“We’ve only just met. We don’t know a thing about each other and you want me to… _coach_ you?”

The danseur’s eyes get distant and glazed as he speaks. “I know that you are a rugby captain and therefore used to physical rigors and giving direction. You are studying to be a doctor. Therefore, I know you possess moderate intelligence, observational skills and have had an adequate study of anatomy and the human form. I know that you come to these woods quite frequently to be away from people. You had a troubled childhood, or perhaps a character flaw or secret that makes you feel like you are wearing a mask around others and that people don’t know the real you. You therefore possess a hypersensitivity towards reading body language, an openness to emotional matters and keen perception of others that will provide critical, if unsophisticated, feedback on a performance that requires the ability to evoke emotion. I think that is enough to be going on about, don’t you?” 

The young danseur disappears through the doorway and John can only stand there, stunned, feeling as if he has been stripped naked and flogged in that abandoned building on the outskirts of campus. 

A second later that dark head peeks back around the corner of the entryway and fierce, bright eyes fix on John. “By the way, the name is Sherlock Holmes.” The young man winks, making a clicking sound with his tongue and disappears once more. John lets out a slow breath.

 _’16 days to teach Sherlock Holmes about love’_ John thinks. _‘I can work with that.’_


	2. No Masters or Kings

John arrives at the abandoned building at a quarter to six in the evening and finds it empty and quiet. He paces the open area for a few moments, his thoughts racing and his heart thumping wildly with anticipation, excitement and a bit of fear. 

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, he at last settles into his plan of action and places his gym bag in the corner. He carefully removes two water bottles, placing them by the wall, and then fishes out a stick of chalk. He marks out on the floor four parallel lines, equidistant apart, tucks the chalk away in his bag and settles down to wait. 

He sits cross-legged, his eyes closed, focusing on his breathing and reciting the mental mantras for confidence, courage, and perseverance that he often practices before important matches and tests. 

All day he has obsessed about that early morning encounter with the beautiful danseur, Sherlock Holmes, and contemplated what a rugby player can possibly do to help such an obviously talented but tightly controlled young man connect with and surrender to emotionality. It is a monumental challenge to undertake, the emotional excavation of a virtual stranger and, adding to the challenge, John is well aware that he is hardly the poster boy for achieving complete openness with one’s feelings. 

Everyone that knows John would characterize him as the picture of pleasantness and kindness; jovial and caring, indomitable and always smiling, but that is just the face he puts on for the world. That is just a caricature of himself; a role that he has been playing for so long that he doesn’t know how to sluff it off and be his whole self, fully human, when everyone has come to expect him to be so much more. John has shielded everyone in his life from the ugliness of his dark side; the hurt, the anger and the pain. He hides all but the happier and more socially acceptable emotions. In that way, he and Sherlock are alike, and yet opposites in the faces they share with the world. 

John thinks grimly that it is unlikely one could find a more poorly qualified guide for this task, yet, Sherlock asked (demanded really) his help. John can hardly refuse when he had failed to keep himself in check and inadvertently diminished the young man’s confidence in his performance just sixteen days before an audition that will surely determine the danseur’s future.

Never one to shirk a challenge, John can only do what he knows has worked for himself and hope to repair the damage.

John’s eyes flutter open at the sound of shuffling in front of him. Sherlock is before him, shirt and trousers already stripped, his back curved into an elegant arc as he leans down to pull on his slippers.

“No, keep the trainers,” John says, gesturing towards his feet. “You won’t want to be wearing slippers for what we are going to do tonight.” John unfolds and rises to his feet, shucking off his own shirt and tossing it on his bag. It only seems fair, given how scantily clad Sherlock is, that he also dress down. Besides, he plans to sweat.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, before they widen at the sight of John undressing. Perhaps he had assumed John would just sit on the sidelines but, as Captain, John would never direct his teammates to do something that he doesn’t participate in himself. It is a matter of respect, fairness and camaraderie to demand as much from himself as he does from anyone that trusts him to lead. He knows he will need to be all in for this to work with Sherlock.

“And what, precisely, are we going to do tonight?” The words are careful and Sherlock’s tone is neutral but he is clearly skeptical, perhaps even apprehensive about what John intends. John can’t help but smile a little as he bends his knee and pulls his leg up behind himself, stretching his calf. Sherlock is watching his every move like a hawk and it boosts John’s confidence a little. Sherlock had been so self-assured and arrogant when they’d met earlier this morning that John had assumed working with him would be intimidating. A little doubt on Sherlock’s part is reassuring and makes John hopeful that it won't be a battle of wills and ego the entire time.

“We’re going to get high, the _hard_ way,” John winks then snorts a laugh when Sherlock looks genuinely shocked for a few seconds.

“Four lines.” John points to the floor where the chalk lines are sketched. “Run to the first then back to the start. Then to the second and back to the start. To 3rd line, then back. To 4th, then back. That is a set.”

“Running?” Sherlock scoffs. 

“Right,” John grins, undeterred by the scorn in Sherlock’s tone. “They’re called ladders but coaches like to call them _suicides._ Sounds more intimidating and, quite frankly, that’s what they begin to feel like after about the 20th set.” John continues to stretch, his arms now. 

Sherlock gestures at his own trim body, all rigorously worked, tightly coiled muscles. “Surely, you don’t doubt my physical prowess just because I’m not a rugby player?” 

John lifts an eyebrow and tips his head up, putting a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Mmmm. We’ll see who hits the _break point_ first.” He crouches at the start line. “I’ll go first. Show you how it’s done.” John sprints to the first line, turns and runs back to start, turns again and immediately races to the second closest line. By the time he has turned and is on his way back from the third line, Sherlock is standing at the start line, regarding him with thoughtfully narrowed eyes while he methodically stretches his arms and legs. John smiles and does the final two laps already feeling the buzz of endorphins flooding his system. 

As soon as John is over the finish line the final time for his first set, Sherlock takes off, seeming intent to prove how John’s assertion that a rugby player can outlast a ballet dancer in sprinting is ridiculous. His long legs carry him to the first chalk line in less than two strides and John is certain that, side-by-side, Sherlock would beat him hands down in a sprint. However, John has always won out on endurance rather than speed and so he just grins and takes off on his next set when Sherlock strides easily over the finish line from his first set.

“No, I believe _that_ is how it is done,” Sherlock remarks smugly as John dashes past him. 

It is an hour and a half later and they are both dripping with sweat, panting with faces twisted with the agony of muscles that are screaming from being overworked. John’s lungs are burning as he throws himself over the finish line for what must surely be the 50th set, but Sherlock doesn’t take off on his next set. He is collapsed against the wall, chest heaving and eyes glassy. His pale face is flushed red and his hair is drenched and sticking out wildly. 

“It’s not an accurate assessment of physical prowess,” Sherlock rasps. He shakes his head, his features arranging into exhausted anger. 

“Come on,” John heaves, tone sympathetic as he extends his hand to help Sherlock to his feet. “Your turn.”

“No,” Sherlock snaps glaring at John’s offered hand, his pale eyes turning sharper as they move to John’s face. “It is not fair. It is one simple muscle group worked over and over. It is stupid, primary school stuff. My body is a sophisticated and complex machine attuned for the much more difficult demands of ballet which requires the entire body working simultaneously. Ballet is synchronized and precise movements that are coordinated across multiple muscle groups. This is the work of a simple machine, like you, that is capable of nothing more than running and slamming into things. This is a waste of my time.”

John holds his temper, his eyes firmly on Sherlock and his tone even. “You’re being lazy.”

“I am not lazy,” Sherlock roars, jumping to his feet and he is suddenly inches from John’s face, looming over him with a fierce intensity in his eyes, every muscle tense and ready to tear John to shreds. “Fifteen hours a day, day in and day out, for years. _Still I work._ Over ten thousand hours. _Still I work._ Body bruised and bloody and broken. _Still I work._ Feet swollen and ankles twisted, muscles pulled. _Still I work._ Excruciating pain and exhaustion. _Still I work._ I have devoted myself utterly to this one thing with a commitment and passion a dimwitted meat-headed like you can’t possibly comprehend. Who I am. What I do. I am _anything but_ lazy. _I work._ ”

John meets his stare and lets the silence stretch between them. Sherlock’s chest is heaving, his eyes blazing and every trace of exhaustion consumed by fury and passion. He is so close that John can feel the heat radiating off of him and see every flicker of emotion in his usually shielded eyes. The exhaustion is so deep, that he is unable to hide, it is all bubbling to the surface, revealing itself.

 _‘Now, we are getting somewhere,’_ John thinks. He is glad they have finally arrived, so close to Sherlock's _breaking point_. He understands that every fiber in Sherlock's being is telling him to give up. John just needs to get Sherlock’s brain out of the way and he knows he can push him right up to, and through, that mental wall. 

“Show me.” John’s voice is low and even. “You are trying to convince me you don’t need to do this? You’ve got nothing to prove? You don’t care about me or this challenge? All I hear is excuses. All I see is your brain trying to convince your body that you can’t do this. It's telling you that your body is too weak and that it is ok to give up. Your brain wants you to be lazy, Sherlock. Your brain wants you to give up - to stop trying - to fail. Your brain believes that you can’t do this. But I know _you can_.” John stops and lets that sink in. 

He can see the minute emotions pass through Sherlock’s expression, like wispy clouds obscuring the sun. Anger giving way to recognition of the truth; that he is fighting John because he wants to quit and he's afraid to fail. 

“I am going to keep running now. If you are so bloody tough, _show me,_ Sherlock. Show me you want this. You're stronger than this.” John stares into those icy blue eyes a moment longer before turning, walking a few steps and crouching on the start line again. He waits. After fifteen seconds Sherlock comes and crouches next to him and they take off running once more.

They are in the middle of their second set following their argument when John sees Sherlock hit the wall and push past it. The change is instantaneous; one minute Sherlock is dragging, barely able to take another step, and then he is off like a startled pony, sprinting faster than when they started. 

“Ah, there you are. I told you you were just being lazy,” John huffs, feeling a little shot of endorphins by proxy at seeing Sherlock peak. 

“Oh. My. God.” Sherlock breathes, his whole face beaming with ecstasy. “I feel like I could run for ages now.” He is at least a half lap ahead of John now which means John gets to see the huge grin on his face as he passes, heading to the next line. 

“Right. That’s it.” John pushes harder, reaching for his own mental wall. 

It takes four more sets for John to finally hit his barrier and he completes two more once he is through it for the pure joy of the freedom from that self-imposed limitation. Then he collapses on the cool concrete floor beside Sherlock, shoulders inches apart and both giggling with the mental high. 

“This is glorious,” Sherlock chuckles, his mouth wide in a grin that seems almost drunk. “Endorphins and -” He twirls a hand “Chemical cascade. I feel so utterly spent and…”

“Happy?” John offers. Sherlock laughs and John joins in. 

“God, yes. This must be what _happy_ feels like.” He sounds so full of awe. It pulls on John’s insides to consider Sherlock has never felt something like this before - never been happy. John rolls to his stomach, lifts up on his elbows and gazes down at Sherlock, indulging in a moment to watch the dansuer's eyes sparkle as he lies there, gazing up at the ceiling. John drinks in the rosy flush from his cheeks down his sweat-slick chest and the way his tattoos shift with each breath he takes. 

He is brilliant, radiating joy and completely incandescent. The sated exhaustion and exhilaration feels so akin to a post-orgasm experience that John finds he desperately wants to touch Sherlock. Instead, he settles for hovering his finger over one of the tattoos on his hip that begins somewhere below the waist of his form-fitting shorts and wraps around his rib cage in a delicate pattern of lines.

“What does this mean?” John lifts his eyebrows, unable to stop grinning as he meets Sherlock's eyes. He can feel the heat radiating off of Sherlock over the small distance from his finger to Sherlock’s rib. Sherlock looks down at himself and suddenly frowns.

“It’s nothing…” He glances at John. “Personal,” he corrects stiffly, his hand coming up to cover the majority of the design. 

“Right. Sorry.” John retracts his hand as a sudden chill fills the air between them. It comes like a slap in the face for John to realize they hardly know each other, really, and he is overstepping to ask such a clearly personal question. It sobers him quickly.

“It’s just - well, you see, I -” Sherlock’s face scrunches as he struggles to put something obviously painful into words and John can see the liquid starting to glaze his eyes; the vulnerability there. 

“No, you don’t have to tell me,” John interrupts. It will not do to pry Sherlock open and pull him apart like this after John has literally run down his defenses. It would be a bit like taking advantage of someone that is drunk and, more than likely, that would only end with Sherlock snapping closed once more so tightly that John will never be given the chance to properly earn his trust. 

John pushes off the floor and gets to his feet with a soft groan. He feels heavy with the overuse of his muscles, but it is a pleasant burn. He plugs in the stereo and turns on the music. 

“Just put it all into the dance,” John instructs.

Sherlock starts moving the moment the music begins, the routine so well practised that it seems as natural as breathing. John watches, breathless, as Sherlock repeats his performance from the morning. However, this time there is a rawness to it; the beginning of a lovely, reckless abandon - a sort of tentative, budding of hope - in the joyful parts and a humbling devastation in the darker parts. Sherlock isn’t able to get quite as high in his jumps as the previous performance and he trembles when he holds certain positions due to his exhaustion but the depth of emotion is a vast improvement that makes John feel as if he has been ripped apart and sewn back together by the time the song concludes. 

When Sherlock comes to rest in his final position on his knees, there is nothing of that tension of the first performance, instead he hangs his head and his dark curls fall over his face as his body collapses in further with an expression of complete defeat. After a few heartbeats his hands come up to cover his face. 

“Amazing,” John breathes as he turns off the stereo. When he turns back to Sherlock he sees he hasn't moved and realizes Sherlock’s body is shaking in apparent silent sobs.

“Christ,” John breathes, feeling wrong footed, as if he has somehow wounded the younger man. He turns back and snatches his own coat out of his bag and drapes it around Sherlock’s hunched shoulders, hoping it will provide the comfort of a hug without the awkwardness of physical contact between them. Sherlock pulls John's coat around himself, head still bowed.

“I don’t know what I'm doing - what _this_ is,” Sherlock rasps sounding wrung out and frightened. “I don’t do _this._ ”

“Hey, it’s all right.” John dares to place a hand between his shoulder blades. He can feel Sherlock trembling through the barrier of the coat. “Sometimes it’s like that. It’s like removing a blockage. It feels good, the release, but all that other stuff comes flooding out too. It’s fine. It’s all fine, Sherlock.”

They stay like that a few moments, John’s hand on Sherlock's back as he hunches; shuddering, overwhelmed with emotion. The last light of day has faded in the surrounding woods when Sherlock finally clears his throat and straightens up slightly.

“Do you mind, just leaving me a bit?” The soft words seem loud in the hush of the quiet woods.

“Yeah, right, of course,” John says stepping away and gathering up his things. He moves to the door and hovers there a moment, looking back at Sherlock; crumpled over, clutching himself with John’s jacket over his shoulders. He wouldn’t blame the young danseur if he never wants John’s help again.

“Are you sure you’ll be OK?”

“Quite, John.” He doesn't look up but he has almost recovered his imperious tone and John smiles at that, feeling a bit reassured. 

“Alright. Ok, then.” John says. Then he awkwardly shifts his stance, hoping Sherlock is going to say something before they part. He waits a moment, his heart dropping with the certainty that he will not be welcome to help anymore. At last, he sighs and turns to walk away.

“7am, John,” Sherlock calls when John is a few steps away. “Come, if convenient.”

John turns back with a smile on his face. Sherlock has lifted his head but remains on his knees. One corner of his mouth is pulled up in a crooked smile.

“Right,” John says with a nod, as that feeling of _something,_ lovely and warm between them, flushes his body again. 

John turns away and has taken a few more steps when he hears, “If inconvenient, come anyways.” He can’t help but laugh and his steps are a little lighter as he drifts through the woods and back to his dorm room, smiling to himself the entire way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it was supposed to be a one shot, but what can you do when the muse calls.
> 
> Let me know what you think and if you'd like it to continue.


	3. Starving Faithful

“I've been thinking,” John announces without preamble as he enters the abandoned building, tossing his gym bag in the corner.

Awkwardness of the emotional breakdown aside, he is still smiling and all but floating from the memory of the previous evening. He hasn't stopped thinking about Sherlock stretched out on the floor, body relaxed and face alight with that brilliant, radiant, unguarded smile. The image has been on constant loop in John's mind, resulting in a permanent dopy smile on his face.

Sherlock is already stripped down to his skin-toned shorts and is nearly folded in two on the floor, face pressed between his bare knees in a way that proves that he is either incredibly flexible or has a high tolerance for pain. John suspects both are true.

“Is that wise?” Sherlock’s tone is flat as he unfolds and stretches his long arms heavenward, uncoiling and flexing from the tips of his fingers to the bottom of his spine. Only a slight tilt of his pursed lips hints that he is teasing.

“That day we first met,” John continues, undaunted. “You knew a lot of things. Things about me. Knew it right off before we'd hardly spoke.” 

Sherlock's eyes lift to John, the humour gone and replaced with a wary regard.

“I didn't _know,_ John; I simply _observed._ ”

“Yeah?” John rubs at the back of his neck thoughtfully. Going into this discussion, he had thought to have figured something important out about Sherlock’s interest in him, but that response calls John’s previous theory into question. “So... _how?_ ” he presses.

Sherlock’s eyes move over John, taking him in from head to toe. Then the danseur rises up, held sideways in a straight line between the strength of one arm and the point of his toes, his other arm reaching towards the ceiling. It is a move from his performance, but it does not go unnoticed by John that it conveniently turns Sherlock's back to him, cutting off the conversation. 

_‘I see. Still playing that close to the vest,’_ John thinks as he huffs a laugh. He is nothing if not patient and persistent and he remains committed to going slowly with this. It’s too important to muck up with haste.

John shucks off his own shirt and tosses it on his bag in the corner. Mentally running through some ideas about what to do during this practice, he watches Sherlock while he stretches.

“I was thinking of showing you a technique I use to mentally center myself,” John says conversationally as he reaches for his toes. “It involves-”

“No.” 

John stops short, startled by Sherlock's blunt objection. 

He still has his back to John, holding himself in that perfect diagonal line, like a fallen cross. He splits his legs, bends the upper one to bring it up towards his chest, plants his foot on the floor, then pivots on that, whipping around and unfolding in one fluid movement, like a party horn uncurling from itself. He has twisted completely around and is on his feet, sauntering towards John before John even begins to comprehend how the human body can move in such a way. 

“Last night I completed _your_ challenge, I rather think it is _my turn._ ” Sherlock’s chin is tipped up and his small smile is devious. His eyes are a brilliant emerald, green-blue today and, as he comes to stand in front of John, John is completely arrested by how different they are than that first day. He almost can't believe those eyes belong to the same person.

“Sorry, what?”

“Ballet, John. Do keep up. Teaching encodes the information in the brain in a completely new manner; offering perspective and reinforcing concepts. In this case, teaching you the routine and observing you attempting to execute the choreography for this performance will remind me of proper form and what _not_ to do.” 

Sherlock slides down into the first position for his routine as he speaks, which happens to be on his knees before John. Sherlock looks up at John from under his dark fringe with a taunting expression on his face; issuing a wordless challenge. The lift of his eyebrows and curl of his lips says that he is certain that John can’t meet the physical demands of ballet. 

John doesn't have a chance in hell of resisting that. 

There is the clever turn of tables, the appeal to John’s principles of fairness, but it is rather the sight of Sherlock, strong, gorgeous and nearly nude, on his knees before John which causes his vision to go a bit white on the edges and him to be unable to resist dropping to his knees, mirroring Sherlock. 

Sherlock nods and then, without a word, they begin.

John tries his best to replicate the artistry and beautiful lines of Sherlock’s body, but it is surprisingly difficult to achieve and hold the positions Sherlock effortlessly accomplishes.

A few parts are fun, like launching into the air horizontally and landing in a push-up position, which John impresses himself (and, he'd like to believe, Sherlock as well) by accomplishing without smacking his face into the concrete floor. And the moment when they both have a good laugh after John crashes into Sherlock while attempting a pivot and they both land sprawled flat on their arses and a bit tangled. Sherlock clearly doesn't want to laugh at first, but eventually John's giggles win out and he joins in with a deep, rolling laugh that is like dark chocolate. Those moment are a short reprieve from the torturous test of strength, endurance and flexibility of the majority of the practice. When John can’t distract him with a bit of playfulness, Sherlock is a merciless instructor, demanding perfection in every expression before he will let John move on to the next part of the routine. Following each of John's attempts at mirroring Sherlock's execution of the move, Sherlock hovers around John, posing him like a life-size doll and barking one word instructions. 

_'Forward’_  
_’Stiffer'_  
_'Firm’_  
_’Arch'_

John is therefore forced to hold extremely strenuous positions for long periods of time as Sherlock adjusts him.

The physical strain, as it turns out, is not even the most torturous part. What ends up posing the greatest challenge (and risk) to John is being the complete focus of the brilliant danseur’s undivided attention and how frequently Sherlock touches John in the process of correcting every minute detail of his position. With constant pokes, prods and the application of firm pressure, Sherlock molds John into each new form as carefully as if John is to perform in his stead. It is a cumulative effect that slowly breaks down John’s usual resistance until he is painfully aware of a kind of intense intimacy and a fragility to his facade of humour and easy confidence.

John tries to capture a meditative state, ignoring the firecrackers of sensation with each brush of fingers against calves, along his bare chest and over his jaw to tilt his chin back (the latter feeling so much like the beginning of a kiss that John's eyes flutter closed and he holds his breath until Sherlock moves away). However, Sherlock wears him down until the slow dance of touches and anticipation of touches proves to be _too much_. Too much time to think and to feel. Too much hyper awareness of his body and Sherlock's effect on it.

A kind of clarity cuts through the pain. John's mind tumbles over and over until he sinks into a truth as exhilarating as it is terrifying; he is well gone on the beautiful, brilliant danseur. Has been since the first moment, really. Arse-over-teakettle smitten with Sherlock like he has never been with another. 

However, this sweet surge of elation is short-lived. It quickly curdles; tainted by doubt until it becomes a sharp and acidic burn in John's stomach at the realisation that Sherlock can't possibly feel the same. How can he, really? Sherlock is, as he made exceedingly clear to John the previous night, completely committed to ballet with a single-minded devotion. He has worked his entire life to make himself a finely tuned instrument; his keen mind and sculpted body is a work of art. While John is nothing more than a bumbling rugger bugger with a mind for anatomy. John does not fit into Sherlock's world and can't possibly hope to breach his hardened exterior in a few hours over a couple weeks together. John's dark thoughts only serve to make him a poor study of Sherlock's routine.

A hour and a half into their session and they are still not to the first chorus of the song. His body and mind are strained with the demands of the routine and the assault of gentle caresses comes too randomly to block out; each confident touch lighting up his skin with electric sparks until he is certain that he is only a few touches away from an embarrassing display of the full extension of one _particular_ muscle. 

_Loose track pants can only hide so much._

Muscles trembling with the effort to hold his pose, John is feeling a little frantic inside. He is on the floor, his arms over his head, his knees bent, the majority of his weight resting on his shoulders and neck and the point of his toes. His pelvis is thrust upward so that his body, from bent knees to where his shoulders meet the ground, is held in a straight, diagonal line. Sherlock is circling, tracing every line of John's body with his intense, unrelenting stare. 

John’s thighs are burning, his toes feel like they are breaking, there is a muscle twitching in his calf and the unnatural arch of his feet shoots a pain all the way up the back of his leg to his knee. His whole body is damp with sweat and, with the crooked angle he is forced into with his chin resting on his chest, he can see his twitching abdominal muscles and has a spectacular view of the prominent bulge of his groin that is growing more and more defined as the seconds tick by. His body, already heated with strain and arousal, is positively boiling with humiliation in knowing that Sherlock is sure to notice his unwelcome state any moment now. Yet, Sherlock remains utterly focused on perfecting John’s stance.

“Lift.” Sherlock touches John’s lower back and John jolts, nearly losing all his balance with the instinct to flinch away from any more stimulation. He has a moment of mental panic, not unlike that experience when he hits the mental wall for physical exertion and his brain is utterly convinced that he can't go on, but he grits his teeth, clenches his muscles and clings to the raw edges of his resolve and determination. 

Sherlock makes a sound in his throat, like curiosity or consideration, then places his fingers more firmly on John's lower back. “Higher.” 

John closes his eyes and tries to comply, every muscle shivering with the effort and Sherlock's fingers a warm pressure on his sensitive flank. John is quaking, determined not to surrender to his body's protests, when Sherlock's voice whispers very close to his ear.

“I said higher… Don’t be _lazy,_ John.” Chiding amusement tinges his voice and it makes that uneasy sensation of looming rejection twist in John's stomach. 

John snaps his eyes open and cuts them sideways, catching Sherlock’s smirk. 

_It's revenge._  
_For last night._  
_Sherlock is throwing John's own words back at him._

John is flooded with bitter irritation and he is tempted to call Sherlock a _bastard_ or other, more colourful, terms for inflicting this torture but he is afraid if he opens his mouth he won’t be able to maintain the delicate balance he is in, so he settles for glaring as he gives a renewed effort to lift himself into proper form. 

It's no use. 

Sherlock moves around him and soft fingers touch his thigh and it's too distracting. In a moment of screaming muscles and shattering sensation, John topples to the side, cursing and curling in on himself. It feels like more than his concentration and position are broken. Defeated, the uneasiness rises and washes over John like a tsunami, drowning him in the horrible realization that this entire session was Sherlock’s way of mocking his harebrained efforts to help. What John thought was a rather good start yesterday is clearly pitiful and ridiculous in Sherlock's eyes. John lies there in the cold cement for a moment, panting and gathering himself back in. 

“Not giving up, are you?” Sherlock prods. John wants to stay there, curled in on himself, but it wouldn't do to indulge such emotions. He is well practised in hiding and pushing through both physical and emotional pain. So, instead he groans, rolling away and getting to his knees, then hauling himself to his feet with far too much difficulty; muscles he'd never worked before screaming their protest at being overused.

“Been at it for a hour and a half,” John says walking away, though it is more accurate to call it _hobbling._ All his muscles are stiff and complaining. “I've class, Sherlock. I'll be late.” 

“Sounds like an excuse,” Sherlock drawls.

John's insides wither. He picks up his shirt and looks over his shoulder, holding in the desire to scowl at Sherlock who is radiating smugness as he rises to his feet. 

It _was_ an excuse but a tactful one that let them both part with their dignity. He is irritated that Sherlock is making it difficult to bow out as gracefully as possible. John had made a mistake becoming infatuated so quickly with someone clearly uninterested, unavailable and out of his league but Sherlock needn’t be _cruel_ about it. John stiffens his back, shoves down the hurt and tries to be casual as he pulls his shirt on.

“Listen. I've lots to do with my studies and rugby. I know this hasn't been particularly helpful for you, so -” John is startled by a hand on his shoulder. He whirls around and Sherlock is right in front of him, invading his space, studying him carefully. His hand moves from John's shoulder to his jaw and John is frozen, staring up at him and just waiting, in stunned silence, to see what Sherlock does next. 

Sherlock hovers, brow furrowed and eyes searching John's face as intensely as if he is trying to pull something out of John by force. 

“No. _You_ listen…” Sherlock’s voice is quiet but firm. Then the words spill out of him so rapidly that John has trouble keeping up with all the twists and turns; the brilliant leaps of insight. Sherlock details precisely how he deduced all those details about John that first day from his apparel, stance, tan, the books poking out of John's bag and John's presence in that particular location at that time of day. He spreads it all out before John, rapid fire and in that rich baritone and all the while his hand holds John in place as he studies him intensely.

“... I _observe_ , John. I determined precisely who you were within seconds of first glimpsing you skulking about in the doorway." Sherlock stops speaking abruptly and presses his lips together tightly, his face hard and eyes widened, as if he has said too much or perhaps fears saying more. Silence stretches between them for endless seconds, only the sound of their breathing and the thunder of John's heartbeat in his ears. 

“That… was…” John's gaze flicks from Sherlock's left eye to his right, then drops to his lips, before snapping back up. “ _Amazing,_ ” John breathes.

Sherlock's brow furrows as his eyes dart all over John's face. Sherlock's expression is scrunched in confusion and doubt. His fingers flex, pressing in a bit more and John realizes that Sherlock's fingers on his jaw are actually pressed into his carotid artery, taking his pulse. John doesn't understand what Sherlock is looking for but he holds his breath, body completely still and all the pain forgotten with the surge of adrenaline that being this close to Sherlock elicits. If Sherlock gets any closer he is going to feel just how very much John wants that hand to tip his head back for a real kiss.

“That's not what people normally say,” Sherlock says after a few seconds just staring at each other. There is a frustrated edge in Sherlock's tone and a skepticism still sharp in his eyes. John lifts his eyebrows at that.

“What do they normally say?”

“Fuck off.” Sherlock smiles slightly, as if this is amusing. The tilt of his eyebrow says that those people are idiots, but there is pain in that truth, even if Sherlock is trying to shrug it off. The thought of such blatant and hurtful rejection directed at Sherlock makes John's heart contract painfully. He lifts his hand to place it over Sherlock's on his jaw but Sherlock swiftly pulls away and turns. He does three elaborate leaps, his entire body lifting as if he can bend the laws of gravity at will. Then he stops on the opposite side of the room, dropping his head down and one leg up, arms extending and flowing into a one legged bow while his other leg points towards the ceiling in an elegant line. 

John feels the loss of heat at Sherlock''s sudden withdraw but can only watch, awestruck and still trying to process the whirlwind of information from the strangely intimate moment that just occurred.

“You are wrong, John.” He does not turn towards John, but continues to move through the routine, slowly and precisely. He could be speaking to himself for as quiet as his voice is.

“Wrong?”

“Some people are not geniuses but they have an uncanny ability to stimulate the genius of others; to be a conductor of light, a guide towards useful insights.” Sherlock pauses, leg extended and straining to stretch his body as he pivots. “It has been remarked to me by those in the dance department that the emotional expression of my performance has improved markedly since we began our association.” Sherlock glances at John then takes two steps and leaps into the air, body twisting as he does so. John watches him as he lands, as lightly as if he is a leaf drifting down; the muscles of his whole body subtly absorbing the shock.

“Class, John,” Sherlock reminds in a flat tone.

“Right.” John at last moves his hand, that was still hovering halfway to his own face, and rubs at the back of his neck. He picks up his bag, hauling it onto his shoulder, and walks to the door, eyes clinging to Sherlock the entire time. 

He stands there in the doorway for a few moments, watching Sherlock flow from one move to the next, before he at last forces that warmth in his chest to melt that ball of doubt in his stomach and restore a bit of his courage. He clears his throat. “You called me John last night.”

“That _is_ your name.” Sherlock does not turn towards John but the eye roll is audible in his tone.

“Yes, but I never told you.” Sherlock freezes for a split second and it's the only indication that he is thrown off by this revelation. John grins, a new surge of adrenaline flooding him and a smugness creeping into his own expression. 

“You looked me up.” John let's the last word pop on his lips as the mini explosion if feels to be. Sherlock may be a genius in both dance and deduction but he had more than a casual interest in John after their first encounter to have immediately went in search of John’s name. 

“Research. To confirm my conclusions.” Sherlock does stop and turns towards John then. His hands rest on his thin hips and his head is tilted to the side. His eyes are soft and his hair is mussed, just starting to dampen from his more vigorous practice then when he was instructing John. For all his exquisite, mind blowing talent he looks very human at the moment and very… _breakable._

“It was only relevant _if you returned._ ” There is a subtle question there and John blinks in surprise. Sherlock is obviously not experienced in expressing a need for or interest in another person but everything since the moment he touched John on the shoulder must be his way of expressing his desire for John to not give up and pull away as John had been about to do. 

_Sherlock wants John to stay._

He is saying it the only way he knows how, by revealing little pieces of the truth about himself and about John’s significance. It is humbling now that John has proper perspective on it.

“6pm, then?” John lifts an eyebrow at Sherlock. Sherlock straightens the smallest bit and his surprise is only shown in the millimeter his eyebrows climb up his forehead.

“As always.” They stare at each other a moment longer and John feels the smile spread on his face to that dopey grin again.

“I’ll see you then.” 

Sherlock gives a sharp nod then twists away. 

John takes one last look, then dashes off to class. He finds he can’t even feel embarrassed when he slips into the room ten minutes late and the professor and a half dozen students look up at him and express various shades of shock, surprise, amusement and intrigue at the sight of him in ratty workout clothes, sweaty and with a flushed glow radiating off of him. He just beams a huge smile at them and takes a seat near the back where no one will notice that he is mostly daydreaming and grinning like an idiot.


	4. No Absolutes

It is 7:15pm when John comes bursting through the entrance to the abandoned building, searching frantically for Sherlock in the dwindling evening light. He stumbles to a halt, nearly vibrating with the tension coiled tight inside him. 

Perfectly still in the pale, fading light, like some forgotten, sacred idol carved of marble, Sherlock is sitting cross-legged in the far corner of the large structure. 

John doffs his bookbag by the door and rests his shoulder against the doorframe, letting the adrenaline drain off of him in a long exhale of relief. He takes a moment to consciously loosen the ache in his chest that had grown in intensity with each passing moment of his tardiness. 

The woods had been far too quiet during his sprint towards their usual meeting location; there was no sign of those desperate cords of music that first drew him to Sherlock. He had been painfully aware that he was over an hour late to their agreed upon practise and, in the wake of the fragile trust developing between them with the last session, he'd been certain that not showing up would shatter everything they'd built. 

However, Sherlock is still here and that is _something._

His eyes cling to Sherlock, drinking in his stark beauty, made otherworldly by the odd quality of evening light and the surrealness of the abandoned, half-finished building. 

Sherlock's eyes are closed and his left hand is wrapped around his lower right arm. As John steps into the room, Sherlock tips up his chin and his lips part around a breathy, sensual sigh. His body relaxes, as if in relief and pleasure. It shoots right to John's core, heating him from the inside out, and he freezes; feeling as if he has stumbled upon an intimate moment, not meant to be observed. His thoughts grind to a halt and his mouth goes dry. He takes a deep breath and then another. When Sherlock doesn't make any other movement or sound John finally dares to speak. 

“I'm… um… I'm here.” John’s voice sounds small in the big empty space. He swipes his tongue over his lips, swallows hard and shifts uneasily on the spot.

Sherlock has steepled his fingers in front of his lips now, as if in deep thought. He doesn't move otherwise; doesn't even indicate he has heard John. John grows more uncomfortable as the seconds tick past, torn between the heat in his flesh drawing him closer and the chilly indifference from Sherlock, communicating by every means short of words that his presence is unnecessary and, perhaps, unwelcome. 

“What are we doing?” John tries to keep his tone confident and casual as he steps forward to look Sherlock over more closely.

Sherlock's eyes snap open and pierce through John. He runs his gaze slowly over him, head to foot then he tips his arm down to display the forearm he had been grasping, revealing to John three round patches clustered on the underside.

“Nicotine patches. Helps me think.” His words are all sharp edges and his tongue clicks harshly on the 'k’ like it is a poison dart being shot at John. “It's impossible to sustain a smoking habit as a ballet dancer.” He brings his hands up to steeple under his chin again. His eyes slide closed. 

“Yeah… suppose not good, you know, for breathing.” John gestures vaguely at the air then ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. He is trying to figure out how to address the elephant in the room - his own failure. He has failed Sherlock in many ways in their short time together. The most recent may well be unforgivable. He missed another practise. They have so few and it clearly means so much to Sherlock.

“Breathing? Breathing is boring.” Sherlock flicks his wrist dismissively. It is elegant, like everything Sherlock does, and John can believe the entire world is boring and unworthy of the attention of the magical danseur.

He watches Sherlock carefully as he settles his steepled fingers back under his chin and seems content to ignore John’s existence completely. 

“Is that _three_ patches?” John asks to have something to say. He peers over at Sherlock’s forearm as he cuts a path to the framed opening that was to be a window. It is hard to catch his breath with the air so thick with tension and he needs to clear his head. It is an added benefit that the location allows him to have an excuse to stand a bit closer to Sherlock.

“It's a three patch problem.” John can feel Sherlock's eyes run over him with that cold, scrutinizing edge. He is not sure what 'problem' Sherlock is referring to, but it feels like an accusation. He assumes Sherlock is concerned about his dance and how to perfect it for his audition. Abusing his cardio vascular system like that can't help, though.

“Bit not good... the strain on your heart-”

“No need to concern yourself with _that_ matter, John,” Sherlock cuts in, suddenly unfolding and rising to his feet in one liquid motion, like some origami pop-up shape.

“No?” John turns towards him. He can see the anger thrumming beneath Sherlock's mask of indifference; the fierce glint in his eyes and the clench of his every muscle is like a tiger ready to spring on prey. He's clearly furious. 

John faces him head on, not angry but resolute and unafraid in the face of Sherlock's fury. He is accustomed to facing down aggression without flinching and he prefers a passionate rage over Sherlock's cold and distant dismissal. Passion indicates that, on some level, Sherlock cares what happens here.

“I have been reliably informed that I don't have a heart.” Sherlock's glides forward, his posture challenging and his stare frigid. He is looking down at John.

John pauses and lets the silence settle between them as he looks up into those mercurial eyes. Tonight they are deep, lush green, like the forest on a moonless night; as enticing as they are dangerous. He wonders who could say such a cruel thing to Sherlock and why the passionate, expressive, exuberant dansuer would ever believe such obvious drivel. 

“Who ever said that, Sherlock, is an idiot.” John says slowly, carefully, as he tilts his head to the side and offers a somewhat sad, crooked smile. “Only a fool’d believe it,” John says in a quiet but firm tone. 

He refuses to look away. He swallows against the lump in his throat that he suspects is his heart and stares Sherlock dead in the eyes. Sherlock may well decide to verbally decimate him and forbid him from coming around but that hardly is going to change how John thinks and feels about him.

Sherlock has a heart. It was clear from that first dance. The last few days have only solidified that initial impression. He’s watched Sherlock fight, struggle, break down, cry and rise up stronger and more brilliantly pure from it all. And, as much as he has fought against John throughout this, it is obvious that Sherlock is fighting nothing so much as his own brain’s fierce restraint of his fiery heart. 

Sherlock searches John's face. It's such a subtle shift but John can see how he registers the conviction in John's words. Those green eyes widen a fraction and he shifts back. John watches as Sherlock's cold, furious exterior breaks down and his commitment to starting a row that would push John away dissolves.

“You will,” Sherlock warns in a low voice and swiftly turns away. 

John continues to watch him as he bends to gather his things; the curve of his back and lines of muscles beneath the thin fabric of his tights as he pulls on sweats and a shirt are sculptural and painfully beautiful. How lucky was John to stumble upon him and somehow say the right words to capture his attention? And now he's gone and ruined his chance to do something wonderful - to, in some small way, be a part of Sherlock's magic.

There is an ache in the center of his chest as he realizes that Sherlock is closing himself off, slipping away.

John sighs in defeat and turns away to let his eyes sweep the woods; growing heavy with shadows that are menacing - especially now that he knows enough to worry who might be lurking in them. John scrubs a hand over his face as the events of that evening flood back to him. 

The whole experience had been so surreal.  
The vaguely threatening voice over the phone.  
The long black car and the interminable ride to an abandoned warehouse.  
Some posh bloke in a suit that made vaguely threatening small talk about John’s ‘association’ with Sherlock. 

However Sherlock feels about him, he supposes he should at least warn Sherlock about the shadowy efforts to monitor and control him. John surely isn't the first to receive such treatment and there was nothing to lead John to believe he will be the last. 

“I met a friend of yours,” John says. 

Sherlock stops and turns halfway towards John. John can see the furrow of his brow and hard set of his jaw in profile. 

“A friend?” His voice is heavy with skepticism.

“An enemy, really.” John squares his body to him, shoulders back and head lifted, hoping to convey the seriousness of this concern. This wasn't just a jealous competitor or some classmate Sherlock had rubbed up the wrong way. This bloke has money, obvious power and an unhealthy interest in the intimate details of Sherlock's life.

“Oh… Which one?” to John's surprise, Sherlock's tone has actually lightened and his face has relaxed a little into an expression oddly less concerned than it was at the suggestion of an encounter with a friend. 

“Don't know,” John ducks his head and purses his lips as he scratches at the back of his neck. The discussion with the prim stranger (that side-stepped John's demand for a name) had been rather cryptic and unnerving. 

John should have been frightened but instead he was just extremely annoyed and then angry that the whole absurd thing was keeping him from his meet up with Sherlock. 

“He said you'd consider him your arch-nemesis,” John offers.

“Hardly.” Sherlock scoffs, his features twisting into a somewhat petulant scowl. 

“You know who he was then?”

“Yes, of course. There is only one man pompous enough to believe he warrants such high a regard in my mind.” Sherlock stuffs his slippers into his duffle bag, rather more violently than necessary. “He is wrong, though. Hardly worthy of my concern and… not _currently_ my problem.” He slips into his trainers and rises to face John. His eyes narrow as he steps forward again.

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“Yes,” John admits.

“Did you take it?”

“No.” 

Sherlock studies John as if searching for any deception. After a few second, he leans back, his expression shifting to something more thoughtful.

“Pity. Think it through next time, John. We can split the fee.” John blinks at him, startled, until he catches the slightest, teasing curl of a smile on his lips. He huffs a quiet laugh as he bows his head to give it a shake at how surprising Sherlock’s humour can be. Then he meets Sherlock's eyes again, grinning up at him. 

Surprisingly, Sherlock's expression softens on the edges. A genuine smile tries to pull at the corner of his mouth but he stubbornly squelches it by pressing his lips together. His hands go to his hips and his body shifts half away, as if he isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. John finds it adorable and terribly endearing. 

The angry tension drains from the room and is replaced with that brilliant crackeling connection that heats the air between them. John feels it gathering in his chest; glorious and dangerous and so very addictive. He plunges into it, feet first, savoring the thrill of it.

“Do ballet dancers really have enemies?” He teases warmly, putting on a grin with a hint of his best boyish charm. If the slight pinking of Sherlock's cheeks and how he tries hard to force his lips out of a smile is an indication, Sherlock is not completely immune to such tactics.

“Yes, of course. The truly exceptional ones do.” He tips his chin up sightly as if ready to defend his indirect assertion that he is exceptional.

“Of course,” John agrees, getting a bit more bold. He holds Sherlock's gaze with confidence and the slightest heat of suggestiveness.

Sherlock studies him like he is an anomaly that he isn't quite certain how to take. John thinks he probably doesn't even realize that he is worrying his bottom lip so it is even plumper and rosy pink from abuse. When he lifts his eyebrows slightly and pointedly drops his eyes to Sherlock's lips, he seems to snap out of the endless calculations that are surely going on in his head. He sucks in a deep breath and starts to pivot away.

“Yes, well, making friends is hardly-”

John steps forward and reaches for him. Not wanting to lose whatever was growing between them, he gently rests his fingertips against the outside of Sherlock’s wrist to stop him from moving away. Sherlock halts instantly. He stops talking, moving, breathing, even blinking. He just stares at John with an expression frozen.

“Hey,” John says softly. He is hyper-aware that they haven't touched before except for those impersonal touches when Sherlock had been instructing him. Sherlock's flesh is warm and smooth and the connection, even so small, feels intense - intimate. “Let's get out of here.” John keeps a playful thread woven into his tone and expression. He cocks his head towards the door.

Sherlock's eyes snap down to their point of contact then back up to meet John's. He looks startled, blinking several times before he finally speaks.

“Why?”

“It's too dark to practise here now. Besides, I want to take you somewhere.” Sherlock's brow furrows again, nose crinkling in an apparent effort to discern what John might be playing at. John lets his fingers slip forward and curl sightly around the blade of Sherlock's delicate wrist; the faintest suggestion of a hold but mainly to comfort, to remind Sherlock of the trust they've built.

“C’mon, I think it might be useful,” John smiles encouragingly and lifts his eyebrows in that challenging way that had managed to goad Sherlock into doing the ladders until they both dropped.

Sherlock blinks a few more times, then looks to the side for a moment and John has a perfect view of the rapid thump of his pulse corded into the long column of his neck. Sherlock turns back to him and he is worrying his lip slightly with his teeth. He makes a small nod, then slowly pulls away.

“I should change,” he states, turning back to his bag. 

‘Right,” John says grinning widely as a plan for the evening begins to unfold in his mind. It starts a warm buzz of excitement at the base of his spine. “We’ll just pop by your room for a change then and leave our bags off-”

“Actually, I've a flat. It's off campus,” Sherlock seems slightly embarrassed by this. “It's really much more than I need and I've not had much occasion to make use of it recently. I nearly live at the studio these days,” Sherlock rushes to add. He has gathered all his items into his duffle bag and now hoists it to his shoulder. “It's not too far by cab.” 

His brisk and efficient stride has him quickly at the doorway. Lest he be left behind, John rushes to join Sherlock, scooping up his bag and settling it back on his shoulders as they exit the building into the cooling evening air.

Once they've trekked to the main road, Sherlock easily flags a cab. They slide in and Sherlock directs the cabbie to 221 Baker Street. 

As the cab bumps and jostles its way towards Baker Street, John directs his gaze out the window to watch the world flow by. Every so often the light from the street lamps or a passing car reflects at just the right angle to capture Sherlock's reflection on John's window; all ghostly pale and dark curls, face aglow with the light from his phone as he texts furiously. John finds himself holding his breath for these little glimpses of his companion. 

John makes a valiant effort not let his mind wander to a different context for going back to someone's flat late at night. He instead directs all his focus on his plan for the night. He wants it to be perfect. More than anything he wants to see Sherlock relax a little, enjoy himself and find just a fraction of that _runner’s high_ he had at the end of their first practise. 

They soon arrive at Baker Street and roll to a stop in front of a black door marked 221. It appears to be in a prime location, nestled next to a little coffee shop that is already closed for the night. John glances up and down the quiet street, fiddling with the straps of his book bag and shifting nervously while waiting for Sherlock to pay the fare. 

He hasn't actively tried to imagine what sort of place Sherlock might live in. If he is honest, he finds it hard to imagine Sherlock living _anywhere_. He seems like some mystical, woodland nymph, only existing to dance in the strange world of that abandoned, half-constructed building in the middle of the woods. 

John studies the exterior of the building as he considers that, if Sherlock were to live anywhere besides the woods, it would probably be as elegant and as beautiful as the young man himself. For all his raw determination and grit when dancing, everything else about Sherlock, from his speech to the way he holds himself, smacks of old money and a privileged upbringing. John, of course, can't compete.

He is startled out of his thoughts by Sherlock bumping him with his duffle as he moves past him and strides up to the door. John can't tell if it is unintentional or a companionable nudge. Sherlock is moving fast now. He swiftly unlocks and opens the door and steps aside to motion John inside with a sudden air of urgency. He then quietly closes and locks the door behind them.

Out of the dark of night and into the weak, yellow light of an entrance hall, John takes a few seconds to let his eyes adjust as he glances around. This part of the building has a surprisingly homely, lived-in feel to it. The wallpaper is nice but old and somewhat gothic. There is a well worn wooden staircase leading up to a landing and a door with 221B on it. To the right of the staircase, on the first floor, is a door marked 221A. 

“Watch the fourth and eighth step.” Sherlock’s voice makes John shudder involuntarily when it suddenly rumbles from close behind, velvety in its low and quiet tone. John swears he can feel the hot breath of it curl into his ear. “They creak.” He pushes past John and turns to look back at him severely. “Quick but quiet. It is best not to disturb Mrs. Hudson, my landlady. She's-”

“Oh, Sherlock, it's you!” The door to 221A swings in and an older lady with short gray hair, that must have been blonde at some point, beams warmly as she flutters out. "So glad to see you're back, dear.” She wipes her hands on a floral apron then reaches for Sherlock, pulling him down to plant a kiss on his cheek. 

Sherlock smiles genuinely but shifts uneasily as he pulls away from the hug. 

“You've been gone so long I'd nearly begun to worry,” the older lady chides affectionately. “About to make some calls.” Those words seem weighted as she looks up at him with a stern stare. Sherlock's jaw tightens.

“No need, Mrs. Hudson. I was simply _busy.”_ Sherlock is subtly edging towards the staircase, while politely ushering Mrs. Hudson along towards her flat. 

“Of course, I know how it is, dear. To be young again, keeping all sorts of hours.” Her voice seems both reprimanding and almost wistful. “I don't mean to pry but I do worry about you.” She looks up at Sherlock with such adoringly maternal concern that John can’t help but make a little humming sound. This draws her attention to notice him at last and her eyes light up as she turns towards him fully, pulling out of Sherlock’s grasp. 

“Oh, Sherlock, you didn’t tell me you have a guest,” she exclaims, her expression positively glowing. 

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes heavenward as if that was the last thing he intended to do. 

“Who is _this_ then?” 

“Mrs. Hudson, this is John Watson. John, this is my landlady, Mrs. Hudson.” 

John moves to take Mrs. Hudson’s hand and is startled when he is pulled into a surprisingly firm embrace. She smells of warm baked goods, rich brandy and the sweet notes of a surprisingly exotic perfume. 

“Oh, a friend of Sherlock's!” She exclaims as she hugs John. He blinks and looks to Sherlock as he tentatively hugs her back. 

Sherlock’s shoulders have slumped in a hint of embarrassed defeat and he is looking towards the staircase, as if longing to escape. 

“Oh, let me get a look at you.” Mrs. Hudson pushes back, grabbing John by both shoulders to study him with a surprisingly intense gaze. “Oh, _quite_ fit-” 

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock snaps. 

Mrs. Hudson relinquishes John with a little jump, turning towards Sherlock with hands clasped under her chin. “Well, you never bring them round-” 

“Can't imagine why,” Sherlock grumbles, edging towards the stairs again. 

John is just grateful they are too busy arguing to actually pay him mind now because he is sure, by the burning in his cheeks, that he is blushing. 

“Oh, hush. I'm allowed to be curious.” 

She turns back towards John and he actually takes a step back. 

“How did you two meet then, dear?” The question is directed at John with wide eyes and eagerly pursed lips. 

“Uh-” John looks towards Sherlock again uncertain what is acceptable to say “I-” He has barely opened his mouth again before Sherlock cuts in hastily talking over him. 

“John is studying to be a doctor. He is helping with my performance for my audition for the London Royal Academy.” 

“Oh, how nice,” Mrs. Hudson coos as she clasps her hands together under her chin and beams at John. 

“Yes. _Nice,”_ Sherlock hisses and reaches around Mrs. Hudson to grab John by the forearm. “Come along, John.” He pulls John to the stairs and draws away his hand. They both trot up towards the landing of 221B. 

“I've just popped some muffins in, shall I bring up some nibbles?” Mrs. Hudson calls after. 

“No,” Sherlock snaps at the same time John says, 

“Oh, that's not necessary." 

John stops halfway up the stairs to look back at her, offering a smile. “Thank you, though. It was nice to meet you.” Sherlock continues up the stairs, somehow making his footsteps sound annoyed and insistent. 

Mrs. Hudson steps closer and drops her voice conspiratorially, though it does little to make it less likely to be heard by Sherlock. It is more of a stage whisper, obviously intended to be heard by both. 

“Oh, I do understand. You boys need your privacy. I was young once too.” She winks suggestively. "Try to keep it down." 

“Oh, no… that's not-” John tries, putting his hands up with his palms out to plead his innocence. 

“John!” Sherlock is at the top of the landing, already having dropped his duffle inside the open door to 221B, hands on his hips and looking irritated and impatient. 

“Right.” John jogs the rest of the way up the stairs to meet him. 

“Have fun, boys,” Mrs. Hudson trills, heading back to her flat. John has no time to be awkward and embarrassed about what she is implying; the moment he reaches the top of the stairs, Sherlock ushers him inside. 

The door opens into a large sitting room with a fireplace. It is not at all what John would expect from the posh, meticulous and intensely focused danseur. It is not modern, sleek, ostentatious or coldly clinical but instead rather cozy and lived in. There is a hodgepodge of furniture, which is not terribly unusual for students, but these are higher quality items - more likely from an antique store than some thrift store. It is as if each piece was chosen carefully for functionality and to be uniquely suited for a purpose, rather than to mesh together. 

Across every surface there is scattered a plethora of objects and papers. There are scientific specimens, like bats and insects and sketches of plants, but also the unexpectedly whimsical, like the large bison head with aviator headphones on. 

John feels as if he is just seeing Sherlock for the first time. There is a thrilling sense of realness in glimpsing this new dimension of him. 

Sherlock seems to feel the intimacy of this moment as well. He is pacing a little, awkwardly touching various objects and moving them from one location to another. 

“So this is your flat. It's.... It's very…” John glances around, seeking a word to describe how it could be so unexpected yet make such perfect sense. 

“Yes, well, I could clean up a bit.” Sherlock says at the same time John lamely concludes, 

“Nice.” 

Sherlock is hustling about, straightening things and it hasn't passed John's notice that he is staying as far as he can possibly get from John. Sherlock picks up some files and tosses them in a box on the desk, then he takes some papers to the mantle, swipes up a knife and stabs them to the top of the mantle rather violently. He looks up at John with an odd mix of vicious anxiety as if his default setting when off balance is to be preemptively vaguely malicious and off-putting. 

John can't help the small, sympathetic smile he gives him. When a flicker of something like confusion shadows Sherlock's face, John quickly shifts the topic by pointing to the skull resting on the mantle by Sherlock's hand. 

“That's a human skull.” 

Sherlock blinks at the skull then grins and it is that dark, dangerous and utterly delectable smile John has come to crave; so full of mischief. 

“Friend of mine… well, I say _friend._ ” John snorts and they lock eyes. John uses all his considerable willpower to anchor himself to the spot as the air between them heats and crackles again and seconds stretch into minutes. It begins to feel like a question and a challenge. 

“I should change,” Sherlock says abruptly breaking eye contact just when John had made up his mind to move towards him. Or perhaps _because_ he had. Sherlock seems flustered as he chews his lip and gazes absently at the skull for half a minute. 

“Right.” John's tone has just a hint of 'are you sure that's what you want?’ in it. 

“Yes, I'm going to do that.” Sherlock states more firmly. For a moment John is confused as Sherlock moves towards him with determination. 

“Casual, I take it?” Sherlock says making a sweeping gesture at John's jeans and black t-shirt. John looks down at himself and by the time he looks back up Sherlock is moving briskly past him and down a hall to the left of the door. John pivots to watch him. 

“Right,” he agrees finally. 

“Loo’s right there,” Sherlock flicks his hand towards a door as he moves to the end of the hall and disappears into the room, door clicking shut behind him. 

John lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and glances around. He drops his bookbag by the couch and sits down on it to wait. He runs a hand through his hair and glances around the room, beginning to visually decipher the piles of mess. He has to admit he has a gnawing curiosity for what Sherlock is like outside his dancing. What other passions and interests captivate the attention of the captivating danseur? 

There are endless stacks of paper that contain seemingly unrelated bits of indepth research on all manners of topics; exotic plants, architecture plans, poisonous frogs. These are mixed with files stamped in bold red with the word ‘confidential’. Scientific equipment, including an expensive looking microscope, pipets, test tubes and some active cultures, are scattered about randomly. 

However, the most interesting thing that John spots is a pair of handcuffs and what looks to be a lockpick set in a rolled leather pouch tucked half beneath some papers on the table in front of the couch. 

He is just reaching for it when the door to Sherlock's bedroom swings open and John guilty jumps to his feet, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. 

He freezes and his mouth goes completely dry when he looks up and sees Sherlock. He is in dark blue skinny jeans that cling to every inch of his shapely calves, thighs and buttox. His chest is barely contained within a dark purple, button up shirt that is a lightweight material that has a slight sheen to it. The colour contrasts deliciously with the exposed column of his white throat. His dark curls, usually unruly and damp with sweat, now appear soft and perfectly tamed. 

“Not good?” Mistaking John's shock for disapproval, he looks down at himself grimacing and apparently reevaluating his choice of clothing. 

“Perfect,” John puts in too quickly, not wanting him to change a thing. “ Let's go, yeah?” John says hastily, aware his heart is beating quite rapidly now. He moves forward and ushers Sherlock towards the door. 

This night has the potential to be the best one of his life. 


	5. A Pagan of the Good Times

As John moves through the crowd the excitement rises, thumping in his chest with the rhythm of the music. His body is already starting to move; a sway making its way into his hips and a dip into his shoulders as everything begins to uncoil. The energy of the crowd, surging and crashing like an ocean of flesh, thrums along his skin.

He looks back at Sherlock, measuring his reaction. His expression is drawn in and guarded as he surveys the room, which is mostly dance floor. The strobing, multicolored lights reveal flashes of the throbbing mosh pit; bodies tangled, swaying, jumping and writhing against each other as electronica music booms, squeals and scratches through the speakers. Very little of it resembles even a loose definition of dancing. Sherlock watches, wide-eyed and deathly still, like he's desperately trying to discern a pattern in the chaos. The people jostle and flow around the two of them.

“Come on, then,” John says reaching back to grab him by the wrist; breathing through that jolt of euphoria that touching Sherlock ignites in his chest. “Room three is better.” 

It is unclear if Sherlock can hear him over the din of music, but he allows John to pull him along through the mob. They skirt the crowd and move through the first room and into the next room that is playing something with lots of drums and a wailing guitar. They push through that crowd as well, distinctly different than the first with their leather and flashy chains, until they emerge into a third room that is quieter and darker with some slower pop songs playing and lights lazily sweeping over a sparser gathering of people. 

John pulls Sherlock through the outer crowd of dancers and into an open space on the floor. He stops, drops his hold on Sherlock’s wrist and turns to him, smiling. He watches the danseur to see how he reacts to their arrival at their intended destination.

Sherlock meets John's stare for only a second, his cool gaze flashing with uncertainty and wariness. Then it slides away, trailing over the people moving around them beneath the coloured spray of lights. 

They stand amid the undulating swells of shadow. Blues and purples and deep reds splinter and trail slowly over the moving shapes, like an endless ocean full of dark, mysteriously rippling creatures coiling around each other. 

Sherlock's brow is furrowed and his eyes narrow as they slide back to John. His expression says, ‘what the hell am I to do _here?’_

John smiles and flicks his eyes down at his own body that has already started moving; arms slightly raised, fingers snapping and hips swiveling and dipping in rhythm with the music. Sherlock watches him, eyes sweeping up and down John's body and a little knot of consternation between his brows. He doesn’t move.

John purposely keeps his eyes cast down at himself. It is difficult not to feel the pressure of that sharp, analytical gaze but he knows, from past experience, he is rather good at this kind of dancing. He's nothing too flashy, but he's picked up quite a few solid moves over the years and his confidence, flexibility and love of music goes a long way towards making him naturally appealing when he gets into it. He doesn't want to allow himself to become paralyzed by paranoia about what Sherlock, as a professional dancer, may think of his much more primitive dancing. It's not about John, after all. It's about Sherlock. He has to loosen up if he hopes to get Sherlock, who is generally so intense and obsessed about perfection in his every move, to let go, relax and just feel the joy of moving his body to the music again. 

John decides to lose himself in the sound and movement. He lets his eyes slide closed, tips his head back and surrenders to the rhythm, feeling his muscles begin to hum with use and his skin to heat with the blood pumping through it. It's a different kind of high than running or any of the other ways he tests and breaks the limits of his body. There's something spiritual and liberating about dancing; a reminder he is more than a body.

> _“Thunder, feel the thunder_  
>  _Lightning and the thunder_  
>  _Thunder, thunder_  
>  _Thunder’_
> 
> _”Kids were laughing in my classes_  
>  _While I was scheming for the masses_  
>  _Who do you think you are?_  
>  _Dreaming 'bout being a big star.”_

John grins and peels open his eyes, searching for Sherlock and daring to hope he has begun dancing as well. He nearly stops breathing at the sight before him. Sherlock is watching him intently, his silver-blue eyes beneath those dark curls determined and intense as he observes John’s every move, as if his life depends on absorbing every detail, all while he mimics John's dance with his own body. 

The same moves look incredibly different flowing through Sherlock’s elegant frame. Though he is obviously trying to imitate John, he can’t seem to help moving in a way that is more fluid and elegant. Where John's moves have the sharp and decisive edge of hip hop, Sherlock's have a ballet dancer's flare. 

The pirouetting blue and red lights tangle, like thread, through Sherlock’s long, thin fingers as he caress the air. They sweep wide and glide smoothly over Sherlock’s long limbs and rippling core like a lover’s worshipful hands. He dances sensually with every inch of his body. John is entranced.

He can’t contain the grin that spreads over his lips. Their eyes lock and John feels that smile widen, deepen. 

“Relax,” John mouths, reaching out towards Sherlock’s tense shoulders. They are not quite close enough for John to touch, so he makes a sweeping downward gesture instead, letting his own shoulders relax into the moves. 

Sherlock lifts one eyebrow in some kind of question. He slides just a little bit closer and his body begins to lose some of the tension and strain. He has stopped watching John’s dancing and is just staring into his eyes as they move. It's hardly a challenge for someone like Sherlock to master John's moves after all. 

_‘Come on then,’_ John thinks as he tips his chin down and looks up from under his brow at Sherlock, setting the heat of challenge in his eyes. He does a step, tap and shoulder rock move that brings him into Sherlock's space. 

Sherlock’s lips curl up ever so slightly at the corners. He’s amused; intrigued. He quickly copies John's move, in his own style, which locks them in a little back-and-forth, advance-retreat dance for a few moments.

Then Sherlock throws in a little twist of hips and flare of footwork that is reminiscent of his ballet moves. He looks at John with a challenging grin and a playful tilt of his head. 

John nods, lets his admiration shine through, and copies, putting his own flare on it. When the next chorus swells John hits the beat harder with the snap of his hips, bouncing and chest popping. He thrills when Sherlock moves to match it. 

They continue on like that, playfully battling with their dance moves, as the song winds down.

As the DJ starts to transition the song, melding it with something vaguely 80’s in tone, Sherlock’s eyes flit to the side, catching a movement that interests him in a nearby dancer. He continues to move as he observers the dancer a moment, then he suddenly does a body roll through his chest, pops his hips, and drops low in a complicated little move that ends with him nearly sliding chest to chest up John’s body. 

As he smoothly returns to moving in time with John, he is looking at him with a small smile of triumph at mastering the move and an eyebrow lifted as if to dare John to try to mimic it. 

John can only blink at him, dumbfounded but the sensual display. The move has brought them much closer. Their faces are now mere centimeters apart. John can see the fleck of black near the pupil of Sherlock’s right eye. The coloured lights are tangling in his glossy curls and crawling over the sharp planes of cheekbones and the swell of lips. 

After a few seconds too long of John just mutely staring, Sherlock leans back, frowning, his face becoming a mixture of concern and wariness as he searches John's face.

“No good?” He asks. 

John can barely hear him but quickly smiles and does a small nod of his head.

“Amazing,” he mouths leaning towards him in the vain hope Sherlock will actually hear him over the music. Sherlock just furrows his brow at him, not seeming to understand.

So, John takes the opportunity to close the space between them. He cups a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, fingers pushing into soft, damp curls at the base of his skull, and pulls him closer to repeat, “Amazing,” right into his ear. For a moment their bodies are pressed together, hot and thrumming with the invigorating exertison. 

When John lets go and steps back, Sherlock doesn’t look up. He leaves his face tilted down and John isn’t certain if it's the lights and the flush of heat from dancing but he thinks Sherlock might actually be flustered by the compliment and closeness. 

He has stopped moving. His posture is tense and uncertain, so John starts to reach for his hand but they both startle, looking up and around, as the whole dance floor erupts in a shout, singing poorly off-key, in chorus with the song lyrics, _“Woooohoo. Shut up and dance with me!”_

They look at each other, twin looks of shock and confusion painted on their features, then they burst into laughter. It feels more natural to start moving again then. They relax into the excitement of the crowd which has gone a bit silly with the retro music. 

Sherlock is looking around, amused and confused by the absurdity of nearby pairs making overtures, playfully mouthing the lyrics and pulling each other closer to dance. 

John can only stare at him, feeling breathless and lost, the familiar lyrics snaking into his head and snaring him helplessly with all the hope and promise in them.

> _We were victims of the night_  
>  _The chemical, physical, kryptonite_  
>  _Helpless to the bass and the fading light_  
>  _Oh, we were bound to get together_  
>  _Bound to get together_

John thinks his heart might be thudding so hard that it is shaking the whole world. Things within are twisting, unlocking and releasing. His chest aches and he knows he’s well and truly gone. He reaches out and touches Sherlock's wrist to draw his attention, knowing the next words all too well. 

_“I don't know how it happened. We took the floor and he saaaaiiiid…”_ He sings as he grins. He closes his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist and lifts it between them as he stares into Sherlock's shocked eyes and begins to move his body. _“Oh don't you dare look back. Just keep your eyes on me. I said you're holding back. He said -” John stops and waits for Sherlock to fill in the gap._

He just blinks at John as the crowd calls, _“Shut up and dance with me!”_

_“This man is my destiny. He said woohoo-”_ John leans forward, waiting. 

_“Shut up and dance with me,”_ Sherlock says this time. He rolls his eyes as he does so, as if it is absurd, but he's grinning sightly and looking endearingly bashful.

John nods and hopes the meaning is clear as he drops his hold on Sherlock and begins actually dancing _with_ him, his body moving in echoes of Sherlock’s. They fall into a natural synchronicity, moving in time, fluid and sharp and somehow _perfect._

He knows he is flirting with danger here, as their orbits start to tighten. He is drunk on it, on proximity and the sweat, and the burn, and that glint of fire in Sherlock's ice blue eyes. It’s a give and take, both exhausting and invigorating - wholly possessing. It is becoming more intimate each passing moment as their bodies come closer and move to something less chaste and towards something, John dares to hope, is a kind of flirtatious foreplay. 

John is so focused on Sherlock; the way he moves, his relaxed and joyful expression, and the dwindling space between them, that he doesn't notice the invasion. 

He looks down and suddenly a petite redhead is in front of him, wiggling and smiling up at him with an obvious come-hither look, as if they’d been flirting for hours. John is so startled by the heated gaze and lush body undulating centimeters from his own, he can only watch detachedly for a moment as she insinuates herself further between himself and Sherlock. John finally peels his eyes away to look up at Sherlock.

It obviously must be a group ambush and, were it anyone else, John might say Sherlock got the better of it. Two pretty young ladies, one with long blond hair and one with a black bob, have Sherlock caged in. The blond is in front and is eyeing him like fresh meat while the one with the black hair has moved to behind him and is being rather obvious in checking out Sherlock's (impressive) arse. 

However, instead of relishing his luck at having two beautiful women throwing themselves at him, Sherlock looks alarmed and slightly horrified. He's frozen, hands lifted slightly in a gesture of shock and confusion, staring at them a bit like they are some animals that have run up on him that he isn't certain are not rabid and that might just bite him. 

For their part, the two women still don't seem to have realised that their chosen target is showing no signs of wanting to participate in their little ménage à trois.

Sherlock lifts his eyes to John and the discomfort evident in his expression is all it takes for John to spring into action. In two moves he has sidestepped and spinned the redhead off. He turns back and slides between Sherlock and the blond girl in front of him. He slips his hands onto Sherlock's hips, drawing him close until they are flush, then begins guiding then both in a gentle, rolling rhythm, effectively claiming him and shutting out the encroachers.

Only when they are chest to chest, legs slotted together, moving as one, does John realize what he's done. 

He knows Sherlock doesn't need rescuing - _not really._ He is just as physically strong, if not stronger in his own way, than John. And mentally - well, there is no question how fiercely intelligent he is and how blunt and cuttingly direct he can be. He can defend himself against a couple of amorous ladies, _if he even wants to._ Yet, John can't help but think that that look of being overwhelmed and distressed is a vulnerability he needs to protect at all costs - the man has so few vulnerabilities, after all. 

“This Ok?” John asks, turning his face into Sherlock's neck to keep the words between them. Sherlock is moving with him, but it is tentative, his muscles tensed. 

There is a beat of silence from Sherlock.  
Two. 

John turns to look at the women that seem to have just noticed their efforts have been thwarted. Their looks are of shock and anger on the face of the black haired girl and a distressing amount of open disgust in the one with the long blond hair. She looks furious and, John thinks, that she also looks somewhat familiar.

“Of course,” Sherlock's hands finally find John's shoulders and rest there. Tentative at first but then, after a pause, curling over his shoulder blades and anchoring there. John turns away from the girls just as the blond leans towards the one with the black hair, whispering something while she directs a rather ugly look of distaste at the two of them. John thinks that he wouldn't like what she is saying. Normally, imagining how these strangers are judging him would make John have an anxiety attack trying to please everyone, but he lets it all slide away and instead focuses on the feel of Sherlock moving with him. 

Sherlock is relaxing slowly into the current of their bodies moving in concert and to John it feels like it is a kind of surrender - an act of unprecedented trust and intimacy. It is almost as if John can feel those barriers melting, until it becomes difficult to know where he ends and Sherlock begins. 

Sherlock's solid chest is heaving, muscles flexing and coiling as their bodies sway, twist and roll as one. Everything fades around them and John is only aware of the incandescent being before him. John's fingers dig into Sherlock's hip and pull. The other hand skates along the sweat-damp small of his back and draws him closer. There can be no space between them. No air. Nothing but skin, and sweat, and heat and friction and the throb of music, carrying them along. It begins to feel sacred, almost reverent, like they're bodies moving together is a form of worship; a sharing of that spiritual release dancing provides.

“John?” Sherlock pulls back a little. He's panting and his eyes look glazed as he glances around. His words come slow and thick, “We should… go home now.” There's a hint of question or confusion in his voice and he seems to have trouble focusing as he turns his eyes on John again. His hand, lingering on John's bicep, curls a little. 

He's stunning and for a moment John can't speak, can only think _‘God, he looks delectable.’_ Then he licks his lips and smiles.

“Yeah. God, yes. Let's get out of here.” His heart is thumping much faster than the beat of the music as he grabs Sherlock's hand and leads him out of the dance club.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by this video: [-Sergei Polunin, "Take Me to Church" by Hozier](https://youtu.be/c-tW0CkvdDI) as posted on Tumblr.  
> The performer reminded me of Sherlock saying that he likes to dance then doing a little pirouette for Janine.  
>  **If you like it please do leave comments and/or Kudos.**


End file.
